


Where You Left Off

by pickledragon



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen, author cant stop wont stop making everything worse yet better, flashbacks within flashbacks within flashbacks, let's just forget that he met her before aou, other characters referenced, the dance fic with more inner dialogue than dancing, this spiraled wildly out of control, wanda is best wingman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-03-23 18:51:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13793997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pickledragon/pseuds/pickledragon
Summary: Sure, they'd both been through hell, but where Steve still started at fireworks and panicked in cold water (memories of slowly freezing in the Arctic filling his mind) she kept her war photos in an album beside her bed, and her prized handgun on a shelf across the room, unused for years and polished to perfection. Peggy had escaped the war, while Steve had become it.Peggy and Steve, post-Age of Ultron.





	1. Coffee and Tea

**Author's Note:**

> I realized I hadn't given any charcters in the MCU my angst-ridden, short-to-medium length genfic treatment and had to rectify that. 
> 
> A gift for thestarspangledwintersoldier.tumblr.com

Steve visited Peggy every other Friday, on the dot. Of course, that was barring excessive injury (often) or prior obligation (constantly), which all added up to ensure weeks to months between each visit. Steve knew deep inside that it didn't matter if he visited every day: Peggy was always at the whims of her own mind. Whether she remembered him was purely up to fate- but that didn't stop Steve from feeling useless. 

(He had read the file as soon as he had received it: co-founder of SHIELD, mother of two, now resident of The Armed Forces Retirement Home in Washington D.C. It didn't surprise him that Peggy had stayed in America after the war- she'd always spoken disdainfully yet fondly of New York, reverent of the way anyone could start anew there. Her Alzheimer's seemed... wrong somehow. The notion that someone with a mind and a spirit like Peggy's could ever be less than she was rocked Steve to the core.)

The first time he had visited, some extenuating circumstances had triggered his guilt more strongly than usual (i.e. a certain Wanda Maximoff and a phantom kiss on his cheek among dancers of a bygone age.) Steve didn't know if it was the sight of Peggy as young woman that she hadn't been in decades that he wanted to dispel or the strange ballroom of blood and murder that he hoped the visit would stave off. 

Before he had hesitated, (selfishly, Steve thought) wanting her to remember him as he was- certain and young and himself instead of war-weary and confused and exhausted. Now? Steve realized he just needed to see her. He wasn't certain why- but that didn't stop him from feeling guilty, like he was reducing Peggy to a means to an end. 

Steve resolved to stop at a flower store on the way, maybe get her some roses instead of an apology she wouldn't remember. 

At home (in the tower, who was Steve kidding, he had no real home to go back to) it had taken a solid four days after the Ultron debacle for each team member to slowly emerge from where they had hidden themselves away from the world, from each other. He had been one of the first to put aside his nightmares and attempt to carry on as usual. Regardless of mental stability, Steve was their captain, and he needed to lead the Avengers no matter what. 

He stumbled into the kitchen, bleary-eyed and probably still half asleep to see Wanda at the breakfast nook, entirely put together and sipping slowly out of a teacup. He halted in the entrance to the kitchen. 

"Mr. Rogers." She examined him with her head at a slight tilt, the new angle revealing the bags underneath her eyes. 

"Ms. Maximoff." Steve mimed tipping his cap at her. "Lovely morning, isn't it?" Wanda gave him a small smile and nodded her head, before retreating back to her tea. Steve turned away from her to prepare his morning coffee. (Black, just like the rations back in the war. Some habits died hard.) Even with Clint's glowing account of her heroics in Sokovia, it was hard for the Avengers to completely let their guard down. But she was still a kid. And she was trying. He had to set the example for everyone else, and hope they realized that too. 

The slow grind of the coffeemaker seemed to suit the quiet atmosphere, and as soon as it finished brewing, Steve filled a mug and sat next to Wanda. 

They sat there in silent for a long while, Steve slowly whittling his coffee down to its dregs. The sunrise was gorgeous today, and the occasional white cloud boded for fantastic driving weather. He would probably just drive his motorbike the four hours to Washington, rather than try to weasel a ride out of Tony. 

Steve was out of coffee. One more cup, he reasoned, then he would leave the tower, and see Peggy for the first time in 70 years. 

He moved his chair backwards, and moved towards the counter. Grabbed the coffeepot. 

Wanda's voice broke the silence. "Can I ask you a question, Mr. Rogers?"

Steve paused. The coffee overfilled the mug and spilled onto the counter. 

"Shit-" He quickly grabbed a bundle of paper towels to rectify his mistake. She watched silently as he wildly flailed about. Wanda covered her mouth before the rest of her quiet laughter could emerge. The layer of poorly concealed tension in the room lessened, just a little. Steve lifted up his mug to clean the marble counter. "Of course, Wanda."

"That woman, in your vision. Who was she?" 

"Oh." Steve stopped rapidly cleaning for a second, the brown stains slowly seeping onto his hands through the towels. "Yeah. Her." He fumbled, while Wanda sat at the island patiently, sipping her tea. Steve sat back down by Wanda. He continued. "Her name was Peggy Carter. She was a dear friend of mine, many years ago." 

"You loved her," she stated. 

"I... yeah." Of course Wanda knew all about Peggy, and his feelings for her. She'd gotten an eyeful in Africa. He took a deep, fortifying gulp of coffee. 

"It must have been horrible when she died."

Steve coughed out his drink. "Wh.. why would you figure that?"

"Your memories of her were," Wanda furrowed her brow, "Filmy, like you hadn't seen her in a long time, like she was out of your reach." She shrugged. "I assumed, given your history."

"Well." Steve sat his mug down with a thud, giving up on ever finishing it. "She's fine. Alive and sort of well. I just haven't been by to see her yet, since coming out of the ice." 

Wanda's eyebrow rose slowly into the air. "Why haven't you been to visit?"

Steve sighed. "Wanda, she's... I guess... Peggy's lived her life, and lived it happily. I died 70 years ago, and she grieved for me. I don't want to reopen that wound and pick up where we left off. She deserves better than that.”

"So you're afraid."

Steve bowed his head. "I don’t want to lose her again.”

"But- I need to see her again. I just. I miss her." Steve choked on the last word, and he took a deep breath. Wanda placed one hand on his shoulder as he composed himself. Her grip was firm, and Steve drew strength enough from the contact to stand. 

"Thank you for the company, Wanda. I’d love to talk some more, but I should head out."

As he turned the corner into the next hallway, Wanda spoke.

"Appreciate the people you love while they're alive, Mr. Rogers. Don't mourn them before you have to."

Steve left the room.


	2. Hesitations and Delays

Steve walked out to the tower's garage, well aware he was forsaking a SHIELD debriefing (at least they had given him 4 days to recover from Sokovia, and not 12 hours like in Manhattan) to go and see Peggy. It was worth it, somehow. He strapped his backpack onto the bike and let himself settle into the one thing he knew was his. 

(The bike had been a remnant from Howard's odd collection of memorabilia from Steve's time with the Commandos, maintained and kept in working condition, even through all these years. Tony had haphazardly tossed him the keys a few weeks after Manhattan. "Keep it. You could probably use it more than me.")

The drive to Washington was cathartic. Just him and the open road and improbable traffic jams to get annoyed at. Steve found he had new respect for Wanda. She had lost her brother, and was still so strong. He admired that resilience. (Steve used to be like that, what had happened? Dying might have had something to do with it, his mind supplied.)

The first flower shop he found was in a city off the highway. An elderly man staffed the counter, and carefully walked him through what each flower meant. Steve walked out of the store with his wallet lighter but one bouquet of red and white roses richer. The man wished him luck with his sweetheart, his eyes warm as he grasped Steve's hand. 

"Thank you, young man. I know she’ll love it." 

"Pleasure's all mine, sir." He left and got back on the road. 

It was a relief to finally step off his bike at the retirement home. The flowers were a bit rumpled from their journey stuffed inside his backpack, but Peggy would probably appreciate the thought. If she even knew who he was. Would she even be happy to see him? Steve was nervous enough at the idea of seeing Peggy, much less being the recipient of her wrath. 

A brief thought crossed his mind. He could turn around, go back to Manhattan, pretend the four hour trip had been to visit the Triskelion (Fury had been not so subtly suggesting he go, at least to see the grounds). But that wouldn't fix the ache inside his chest, and Peggy deserved better than that. He took a deep breath and walked in the doors. 

Inside the home was a surprising amount of chaos for a supposedly military retirement home. An orderly ran after a cackling woman zooming around on a scooter. A stress ball went flying by his head, nailing an embossment of the nursing home's motto. Music pulsed from a nearby room, along with loud cheers. Steve headed to the eye of the storm: the reception desk. A slightly bedraggled employee behind the counter assigned him a visitor's badge and gave Steve a cursory glance to determine whether he was an immediate threat to safety. Not that a home full of former military would need the protection. 

"So, what's the reason for your visit?" the employee asked, eyes on his keyboard. The steady clicks filled the air as he typed out a visitor ID for Steve. “Smile, please.” The camera flashed and a picture of Steve with his eyes closed appeared on the screen.

He sighed. "I heard an old friend from the war was up here and wanted to pay her a visit."

"That’s pretty cool, it’s mostly family that comes by nowadays." The receptionist finished typing. He finished printing out the ID while Steve fidgeted nervously. He suddenly narrowed his eyes and took a good long look at Steve.

"C-Captain Rogers?!"

Steve cursed. He should have known the baseball cap and sunglasses wouldn't fool anyone. 

"Yup." He responded through gritted teeth. "That's me." Anonymity be dammed.

He found the constant popularity a relatively new sensation in the twenty-first century. Sure, Steve had been well-known, even famous in wartime, but a constant schedule of propaganda shows and strategic meetings on the European front kept him far away from the streets of America, where children ran around with his shield and bought bears dressed like Bucky Barnes. (God, Buck would have gotten a real kick out of that.) The most he'd experienced were small nods of respect from fellow soldiers that Steve had gladly returned. They had just moved forward, too exhausted to do anything else.

His reputation as the “Star-Spangled Man with a Plan” had been tolerable as long as it gave people some measure of hope (or even an occasional tool to get administrators to listen to the soldier in tights). Now? It was an absolute hindrance. In this new world of instantaneous communication, between historians or over-enthusiastic fans, Steve's personal life had become nonexistent. He couldn't go out to eat anywhere without a crowd, much less go to on a personal visit.

He resisted the urge to shoot a glare at the young man as he launched himself out of his chair to wring Steve's hand repeatedly. He was undoubtedly well-meaning, but right now just wasn’t a good time. Steve couldn’t keep the irritation off of his face, but the man paid no heed.

"Hi Mr. Rogers- I've always wanted to meet you- you're my hero! My name's John!"

"Nice to meet you, John," Steve responded. Best to just get this over with.

"My dad was a history major before he started working as a teacher, and he would always tell me the most amazing stories about my Grandad Morita- he fought with you in the Howling Commandos!"

"Wait," Steve's eyes widened, "Jim? Jim Morita?"

"Yeah!" John Morita was animated, his hands flying every which way as he drew the attention of everyone in the nursing home, but Steve couldn't bring himself to care. "I never got to meet him- he died before I was born, but my dad told me all about him."

Steve softened at the statement. "Jim was one of my best friends. He was brave, incredibly loyal, and the best hand with a radio that I've ever known."

John grinned. "Thanks, Mr. Rogers." A beep from his computer startled him. "Oh! Your ID's been approved- you can go inside now!" Steve nodded his gratitude. John tore the piece of paper free from the printer tray and started cutting it out. The silence was a nice one, with both of them lost in the past.. "So," Morita ventured, "I guess you're here to see Peggy Carter? Not to be weird, but she's the only person you’d probably be here for."

Steve nodded. "Yeah. I’m long overdue for a visit." He gestured to the flowers wrapped in cloth. They were looking a bit lifeless at the moment, due to his tight grip. "I was hoping these would make up for lost time." He tried not to let any of his worry show.

John laughed, "Totally, Mr. Rogers! But maybe..." Still holding the scissors, he ducked beneath the counter, reemerging with a glass vase. "Use this- it'll make them last longer."

Steve reached out and took the glass. He gripped John's shoulder, "Thank you, son."

"No problem! She’s in room 204, head down the left hallway, the fifth door down!.”

Buoyed by the contact with his past, Steve pinned the slip of paper to his shirt and headed into the home.

Not even a week after Sokovia, and every single person in that nursing home had heard about the team of not-quite heroes and not-quite menaces that had saved the floating city and rescued hundreds (killed thousands, Steve added in his head). With his name and picture emblazoned on his chest, all delusions that he could go about this quietly disappeared. So many elderly and orderlies shook his hand on the way to room 204 that Steve feared his hand would fall off. It was almost as bad as his time on tour, and now every nurse had a camera. Steve couldn't have reached Peggy's room soon enough. 

And Steve paused at the doorway, like he always had, like he always would. He wanted to turn back around, leave the building, but he knew deep in his gut it would be the wrong thing to do. Steve had hesitated with Bucky and now he was gone. He had hesitated with Peggy and never been able to have that dance. And now that life was handing him a second chance on a golden platter, to see her again, to tell her all the things he couldn't say seventy years ago? Steve couldn't afford to hesitate. He entered.

"Ah Steve, there you are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to update weekly, sorry for not having it out sooner. Next Chapter- the long awaited Peggy Carter!


	3. Red and White Roses on Blue Wallpaper

Steve stood in shock. Despite her obvious frailty and grey hair (instead of the brunette tresses he so vividly remembered), one look and he was back in 1943 again, at a military camp and in a lab and laughing in a bar, with eyes only for her. Peggy pushed herself further off the bed, her eyes alight with a kind of strength that transcended age. 

“Peg.” The word hung there, suspended in the air while she looked at him with all the fondness in the world.

“Steve, how smashing to finally see you again. Is Colonel Phillips still running you ragged? I told him, even a super soldier needs rest. How many times do Barnes and I have to say it?”

Steve responded instinctually, like falling back into a habit long forgotten. “Aw Peg, you know someone’s got to lead those knucklehead Commandos around by the ear. If not me, then who?”

“Of course, Steve, how could they ever manage?” She smirked and swung her legs off the bed. “And- apologies for being so informal, this is my first day off in months, and the constant meetings seem to be rubbing off on me.” She gave Steve a warm look and his cheeks reddened. It was so easy to bring back their repartee, like he had never flown into the sea. 

But. 

Something was wrong. There was no way she would react this well to seeing him after seventy years. Peggy spoke of Phillips like he hadn’t died decades ago. And Bucky was… well, he certainly wasn’t anywhere Steve could find him.

Steve knew in his heart that she wasn’t here, not really. For a moment, he realized he could have this, act like nothing had changed and they were both still young and somewhat untouched by the war. He wanted to be selfish, and keep this moment, suspended in time.

“Steve,” Peggy interrupted his train of thought, “are those flowers?” She raised her eyebrow and chuckled slightly.

“Yeah, got em’ just for you.” Steve fumbled with the flowers and held them out to her. 

Peggy sighed exasperatedly. “You shouldn’t have, but thank you.” She allowed herself a small wink towards Steve who quickly turned around to fill his vase at the nearby sink. 

As the water ran, Steve took the opportunity to look around the room. As sparsely decorated as nursing homes tended to be, even in the future, Peggy’s personality shone through the strategic placement of frames (Agent Carter shaking hands with important politicians), a red fedora on her side table. The bookshelf across from the bed made his breath catch in his chest. 

There he was, in all of his ridiculous star-spangled glory, caught mid-laugh, his arm around a chorus girl in one of the few happy moments of that tour. A tiny glass case, in which a revolver lay beside medals of honor. Horribly torrid romances (Peggy was always daring in her literature) interspersed with novels on statecraft and administration lined the shelf. 

Steve reached out and shut off the faucet before it overflowed. Peggy accepted the flowers with a shaky hand to place on her side table. 

“Sorry Peggy, I can’t stay for long. It’s… fantastic to see you again.”

She smiled. “A shame. Still, we must make do with our time together. 

What was he doing, stringing her along like this? Giving her anything less than the whole truth would be deluding her and himself. She deserved better. 

Steve opened his mouth to speak, to confess, but Peggy interrupted him. 

“I was just in a debriefing with Colonel Phillips. Seems Hydra has stuck its prize pig on a train headed North.” She paused. “I know how much you care about taking him down several dozen pegs, so I’ve arranged for the mission to go straight to the Commandos.”

Steve’s mouth went dry and his hands shook. “Um. Yeah, thank you Peg.”

Oh god. She was living the week before the train. Before they caught Zola and the true scope of Hydra’s ambitions were known, before the fall, before the three month rampage to the plane and the ocean. And Steve was there, his arm around Bucky as they stood next to the other Commandos squatting in the snow. The train roared behind them and he couldn’t do anything, couldn’t say a word as Bucky went sliding down the zipline with him. 

He knew how this story ended.

“Steve? Steve!”

Peggy reached over to shake his shoulder and Steve came back to himself. She looked him over worriedly and Steve realized he had fallen to his knees.

“Oh.” 

“Steve, I’m not an idiot. Something’s been wrong since you walked in the room. Tell me what’s going on.” Peggy took a deep breath, cut off in a cough. 

Her voice was quieter. “Please?”

“Okay.” Steve clenched his hands tightly and slowly rose to his feet. Okay.”

“Thank you.”

And he told her.

When he was finished, they both sat in the silence. 

“Honestly, I don’t want to believe you-”

Steve started, “Peggy, you know I’d never lie to you-”

She held up a single hand. “I know, Steve. And that’s why, though I hate to, I must believe you.” Peggy gave a rueful chuckle. “My mind. The last bastion of the young- I never thought it would betray me too.” 

“You’re taking this extremely well.” Steve slumped back in his chair, his hand to his temple. It shouldn’t have been a surprise: Peggy had always been the better adjusted of the two of them.

“Well, when a woman has seen the things I have, time travel and memory loss seem like a daily occurence. I haven’t the slightest actual memory of anything you’ve said has passed. And-” she added, her voice kind, “you never could hide the truth. It’s plain to see in your eyes.”

“I’m so sorry I never came by, things just went so fast, and then SHIELD fell and…” He trailed off.

“I know you were scared, but you’re one of my closest friends. The closest, if my memory serves, though certainly that’s no guarantee.

“I wouldn’t have turned you away, Steve.” Peggy looked at him with reproach. “No matter when, or where, I still care about you.

“I didn’t want to push myself into your life, Peg. You’ve done so much, come so far-”

“None of which I remember, mind you. I highly doubt any version of myself would find a visit from you unwelcome, even if it were in a intensely different circumstance.

“Steve, you’re allowed to let yourself into my life.”

He let out a long shuddering breath and a weight seemed to lift off his shoulders. 

“Come over here, Rogers.” Peggy shifts farther to the side of the bed and holds out her arms for an embrace. “I normally don’t do this, but today’s an exception.”

Steve allowed himself to fall into her arms. They stayed like that, her arms strong around his middle and his face buried in her shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy, this chapter was a long time coming! Sorry for the wait, life got in the way, but rest assured, this fic will get finished!  
> Next time: a dance.


	4. Steady Ground

Steve and Peggy talked for what seemed like hours, and it felt like catharsis, slowly chipping through the decades between them. He would tell stories about discoveries and hilarious situations in the modern day and she would fire back each time with a anecdote about running SHIELD back in the late 50s. (Steve was careful never to point out the dissonance between what she did and didn't remember). They wove stories, and it almost seemed like they had been there together. 

Hours later, Steve had moved to the bed beside Peggy, and all pretenses of formality had been dropped. 

"-and then Hank came in to an entirely shrunk office! And instead of fixing it, he just left the room, pulled on the suit, and worked the rest of the day 6 inches tall!" 

He laughed loud and long and everything was right. Peggy's memories came trickling back, and at least for today, things were okay.

They embraced each other. 

Suddenly, her arms gripped tighter, and he realized, as he lightly rubbed her back, that she was shaking. That she was crying.

"Steve?" Peggy's voice cracked on that small word.

"Peggy?"

"If this is a dream, please don't wake me up."

"...Peg? Are you okay? What's going-"

“How are you- I must be hallucinating. You’re dead at the bottom of the Arctic Ocean." 

It was like a shock to his system. He closed his eyes, briefly. It couldn't, never would have last. 

"No, Peg-I survived. And I'm here to stay." Steve pushed down the feeling of hopelessness and grabbed her hand. "It's going to be okay."

\------

Doing it all over again was horrible, everything Steve had feared it would be the first time. But somehow, it felt more real. Now, at least, they were on an equal playing field. Now, they could both be honest.

"Do you know what I held onto, for years?" Peggy asked him. Her voice shook a little, and Steve's eyes were still wet, but neither of them acknowledged this. "That goddamned dance you promised me. Every year, like clockwork, I would head to a club on the anniversary. Just to stand there, and dance my heart out with anyone in arm's reach."

"I'm sorry Pegs. I shouldn't have said that to you: I wasn't in a good place."

Peggy sighed frustratedly. "That's not what I'm trying to say, Steve."

She grabbed her cane and pushed herself off the bed. "What I'm saying is: I think you owe me a dance."

He took the offered hand. They made their way to the middle of the room, the ticking of the clock their metronome. She held her head high and her cane at her side. 

"I've been waiting a long time for this."

And they were off. Steve had to admit- Peggy was a damn good dancer. But then again, she'd had 70 years to improve. While he'd been asleep in the ice, she'd had time to build a family, a life outside of the trenches. Sure, they'd both been through hell, but where Steve still started at fireworks and panicked in cold water (memories of slowly freezing in the Arctic filling his mind) she kept her war photos in an album beside her bed, and her prized handgun on a shelf across the room, unused for years and polished to perfection. Peggy had escaped the war, while Steve had become it. 

It was admirable in every way possible, but utterly unachievable. Steve didn't think he could never embrace domesticity the way Peggy did. Leaving the fight behind, especially after creating such a decisive agency in the fight for good? Knowing him, Steve would have probably involved himself so thoroughly in SHIELD that he'd have run himself (and it) into the ground. 

His back hitting the wall snapped Steve back to reality. Peggy looked up at him with a wry grin. 

"Still unsteady on your feet, Captain?"

Steve smirked as his heart ached, "The ice-bath couldn't fix everything, ma'am."

Peggy, frail without her cane, gripped tightly onto Steve as they danced around the room, and neither her age nor Steve's semi-competent staggering kept the waltz from beauty. 

Although her eyes were lined with age, Peggy's feet were still as nimble as when she was young, not that Steve had an expansive sample size of her skill. The last time they'd done this, their hands clenched together tightly, and eyes downcast didn't, couldn't count. They were both angry and unreasonable at that moment, Steve relegated to service as a chorus girl, Peggy in the equivalent of a secretary's job on the war front. Square pegs shoved into round holes- she belonged in the battlefield's corner office as much as he on the front lines.

As they turned around, the room seemed to warp around them, and they were catapulted into the past.

It had been raining for most of the day, and tempers were high. Captain America's horse-and-pony show was just adding insult onto the injuries of the 107th. Peggy had seen the whole sordid affair from the back row, and marched directly to the stage afterwards. Steve slouched on the wooden stage behind the curtains. A jeep sat directly beside him, fueled and ready to cart the Captain off to his next show. Good, at least she had a little time. Peggy ignored the curious looks of the stage crew deconstructing the patriotic nonsense and headed towards Rogers. 

Steve was still in costume, staring intently at his sketchbook. Where she had occasionally caught pictures of herself during training, now she only saw garbled half-phrases and an especially detailed chimp on a unicycle. 

"You were made for more than this, you know," she said gently. 

Steve seemed to shrink in on himself. "It could be worse. At least I'm serving my country."

"But you don't really believe that." Peggy stated. 

He shut his sketchbook with a clap. "What else am I supposed to do, Peggy? It's either here or a laboratory. There's no third option."

"Steve-" Peggy stopped. She held out a hand. "Take my hand." 

He did. 

There was something freeing about dancing. Their rapid movements conveyed feeling and passion more readily than any fistfight. Tempers were high, and the ground was slick. Their simple attempts at dancing intensified as the steps became faster and morphed into a frenzied waltz, their hands slipping out of each others as Steve tried to remember how he danced with the showgirls (keep yourself steady, lead gently, but why couldn't he remember it with her?) and Peggy moved seemingly faster than his eyes, even with the serum, could follow. 

A single misplaced foot and they ended up sprawled on the ground, his monkey suit covered in mud and grass stuck to every part of her skirt. They looked at each other, a blush spreading across their cheeks. Steve turned away first. 

"Well, I guess we need to try that again sometime," she said. 

He hopped up quick as a flash and did his best to extricate his shoes from the pits they had dug in the mud, but only succeeded in falling harder to the ground. Steve let out a huff. 

"I better go, Peg."

"Wait." She grabbed his arm, yanking a startled Captain America face to face with her. He seemed... exhausted. She sighed. "It's not your fault. The 107th has had it harder than most."

Steve flinched at the mention of Bucky's regiment, but stood up with a new sense of purpose. 

"The 107th?" He took off running towards Colonel Phillip's tent, with Peggy at his heels.

And amid the flurry of illegal reconnaissance and rescue, neither got a second dance. 

Their feet moved across the floor in the present day, hardwood slippery and light dim. They led, the other followed. And it was what it needed to be. 

A nurse peeked through the open door, but the announcement of Ms. Carter's daily check-up died on her lips. After a minute watching the two lovers ghost around the room, she closed her eyes and exited the doorway before they noticed her. She slipped silently down the hall to the next room. It could wait a little longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, it's finished! Thanks for sticking on this ride with me <3

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: learningthomas.tumblr.com  
> Original content: pickledragonblog.weebly.com


End file.
